He volunteered at the community center, coached the little league team (even though he was almost eighty), and his garden was so perfect, people swore he talked to the flowers. To hear anyone else tell it, Grandpa Benny was practically a living saint, a beacon of kindness in a world that sometimes felt a little too messy.And I believed them, mostly. I mean, how could you not? He was my grandpa, and he was awesome. He taught me how to make the perfect chocolate chip cookie (secret ingredient: a tiny pinch of cayenne pepper, don't tell anyone), how to win at checkers even when you're losing, and how to tell a joke with a straight face. He was the softest hugger, the best listener, and he always had a dollar for an ice cream cone. He was, in every way that mattered, the perfect grandpa.But then, little things started to happen. Things that didn't quite fit the "saintly Benny" narrative. Like the time Mrs. Henderson's notoriously yappy poodle suddenly became the quietest dog on the block after Grandpa had a "friendly chat" with her. Or when the city council mysteriously approved the new playground equipment for our park, just days after Grandpa Benny had paid a "courtesy visit" to the mayor's office. At first, I just shrugged them off as coincidences, or maybe just Grandpa's legendary charm working overtime. But the more I noticed, the more I started to wonder: was there more to my cinnamon-scented, cookie-baking, community-loving grandpa than met the eye